He said he was coming. I hoped no one would buy the house before he arrived.

He said he was going to come, but he hasn't mentioned any dates, and now I'm sitting in Becky's kitchen and peeling apples while Mary holds an open house. It's the second time she's tried. No offers came in after the first one, but she's hoping more people will come to look this weekend.

I shouldn't have this knot in my stomach as I imagine people walking through the rooms. The staging part was hard enough, stripping each surface of its histories and knick-knacks, giving the house a newer, cleaner fictional family. Each subtraction hurt a little more, and I kept waiting to numb up. We hauled the boxes of what we couldn't bear to throw away over to Becky's, where they sit stacked in half the basement.

I shouldn't feel rushed as I walk home. I stop for the mail. A few sale flyers and one envelope.

Dear Misha,

It turns out that I'm not going to be able to come.

I don't really read the rest.

Henry